


The Words

by EmmaTovic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:12:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaTovic/pseuds/EmmaTovic
Summary: (Set as if 'The Final Problem' finished once Sherlock saved John from the well) Sherlock has retreated deep into a shell, he hasn't spoken in weeks, and everyone is worried. When John returns home late one night to see Sherlock about to relapse into drugs, it sparks an emotional conversation, giving John a glimpse into the turmoil tearing Sherlock apart. Johnlock. Sort of.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my first time posting on this website! I wrote this fic a few days ago at 3am because the thought just wouldn't leave my mind.  
> I have completely disregarded everything after John was 'rescued' from the well in TFP when writing this, so keep that in mind.
> 
> Enjoy!

He hadn’t been himself; not for weeks. Though it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to go for days without speaking to anyone but himself in soft murmurs, this was different. This was cold. It was obvious that Eurus had changed something deep inside him, and John was helpless to see how the flooding of repressed memories drowned his best friend. There was nothing anyone could think to do to help, though, John suspected there was nothing anyone _could_ do. Years of bottled up emotion had exploded inside of Sherlock, and his only defence was to try and disassociate from it all. He was merely a shell of the man he once was, and John’s chest ached at the sight of it.

Eventually one evening John had come home far later than usual. His thoughts had been running amok all day, and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to face Sherlock’s emotionless presence. The clock was nearing quarter past one in the morning when John was almost silently opening the door to the apartment. Not that he believed Sherlock to be asleep, but on the off chance he was, John didn’t want to disturb him. Lord only knows how desperately Sherlock needed to sleep.

The flat was barely lit. All the lights were off except one, a small lamp by the couches. At first, John didn’t see him, but soon his eyes adjusted and he saw the silhouette of Sherlock, sitting not on the couch, but instead cross legged on the floor. Usual behaviour, even for him. Curious, John walked closer, opened his mouth to ask if he was ok, when he saw what was on the floor.

John fell to his knees and immediately and wordlessly pushed up the sleeves of Sherlock’s dressing gown to check for puncture marks from a needle. Sherlock, in turn, said nothing and was surprisingly compliant and allowed John’s frenzied inspection of his forearms. John sat back on his heels and took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“You didn’t take anything.” John stated. Sherlock didn’t respond, not even recognising John’s presence. John sighed again and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Please,” he said softly, lowering his hand, resting it on Sherlock’s knee. “Talk to me.” John’s touch seemed to give Sherlock a light shock, his gaze snapping to where John’s hand, which would have been shaking if it wasn’t resting on a surface, connected with his knee. John stilled every movement, even holding his breath. Sherlock staring at John’s hand on his knee was the only acknowledgement Sherlock had given in weeks that he noticed John’s existence.

After painfully long seconds, Sherlock let out a soft sign, and John exhaled in response. They sat together in the almost darkness for an unmeasurable amount of time. It could have been mere minutes or hours. The only sound shared between the two was soft breathing. Despite the hour and his extremely long and tiring day, John had never felt more awake and alert.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and hoarse from its lack of use. John said nothing, he simply waited for Sherlock to speak in his own time, to say how little or how much he wanted. “I don’t know how to manage it anymore.” He finally said after a few more minutes of dark silence. John gave Sherlock a small squeeze of his knee, reassuring his that he was safe and that John was here to listen and do his best to help. That John was there for him during this time of need.

“I know.” John said quietly back. The silence continued for a few more minutes before John spoke again, “I guess as time goes on, you will learn. You aren’t alone in this, Sherlock. We are all here for you. Me, Mycroft, Greg, Ms. Hudson, Molly,” John was cut off mid-sentence by feeling Sherlock’s leg tense under his hand. John looked up to Sherlock figure to see him stiff, his breathing had stopped, and his eyes were shut tightly.

“I had never said it before.” Sherlock finally spoke, breathing again, but his posture didn’t relax. John didn’t need to ask what Sherlock was talking about. He just sat there and let Sherlock speak. “Of course, being a child, it doesn’t count. Before Eurus, it didn’t count. She changed me, changed the way I felt and dealt with emotions.” Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. “I never thought I would want to ever say those words to anyone. Many years went by and it wasn’t even something I thought about. And then…” Sherlock shook his head slowly. “You know when you meet someone, and things just start to _change_?” Sherlock asked John, staring into John’s eyes. He nodded in response, not wanting to speak, fearing that any sound would halt Sherlock finally letting out what has been bothering him. “Slowly at first, barely noticeable.” Sherlock murmured, “but soon you realise how much you depend on someone, how much you need to be around them, how when you don’t see them, you have this dull ache in your chest. Funny thing, isn’t it? _Love_. People go on about it as if it’s the most wondrous thing in the world, when in fact is it a destructive force of nature, unyielding, unable to be tamed or controlled. It was eating at me, days, months, _years_. Though, I can praise myself I never let on to how I was feeling. I had intended to keep it that way. When I finally would decide to say those words, I wanted it to be full of meaning, I wanted it to not be said in under duress, but on my own terms. In the right moment, when I could fully surrender myself to the emotion, let it engulf me, run through my veins. To show the truth of my words through my kisses, to express my need through a touch, by heart thrumming with anticipation, not fear.”

John was stunned. Whatever he had been hypothesising that was running through Sherlock’s head after Eurus messing and tearing him apart, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t this desperate and raw need to be able to confess his love in the most truthful and emotional way. John didn’t think Sherlock had it in him to think and feel this way. But then, Mycroft did say that Sherlock was an emotional child before he locked that side away, deep in his brain. Perhaps finally that iron wall has fallen, letting all this unexplored and neglected need to spill out of him, swallowing him, drowning him.

“I know the circumstances weren’t ideal. Not by a long shot.” John spoke slowly, “but that doesn’t make it any less real.” Sherlock took a shaky breath, and in the dim light, John wouldn’t be able to know for sure, but he was almost positive that Sherlock was silently crying, grasping desperately to hold himself together, to not let out the aching sob which John suspected was threatening to tear out of Sherlock’s chest. “Molly loves you, Sherlock. That much has always been obvious. I had suspected from time to time, but I never realised your love for her ran so deep.” Sherlock’s head snapped up and his eyes bore into John’s. There was a glint of something that was almost terrifying in Sherlock’s eyes. It sent a chill down John’s spine, and John fought the urge to shift a little further away from Sherlock, unsure and slightly afraid of what Sherlock would do.

“ _Her_?” Sherlock spat out? “You think I’m talking about _Molly_?” Sherlock spoke her name like it was poison on his tongue. “Of course, I care for her, despite how I act around her, she is a dear friend to me. But that I _love_ her?” Sherlock stood up with the force of a charging stampede, and began pacing around the living room with such vigour that watching him move was dizzying. “Honestly, John, I know your mind doesn’t _quite_ work the same way as mine, but I would have thought that by now even you could have deduced the blaringly obvious.” Sherlock mocked. John didn’t even have enough brain space to get offended or angry at Sherlock. Instead his mind was racing. _If not Molly, then who?_ As if reading his thoughts Sherlock spun to face John, staring down with a fire blazing in his eyes. “Come on, John, it isn’t that hard to deduce, not now. Who could it possibly be? Honestly, even _Anderson_ could have figured it out by now, in fact I believe he already has, along with many others.” John’s brain was processing it all, his mind sought a conclusion, and when it started to form in his head, John dismissed it immediately. _Impossible_.

“Impossible? Hardly John.” Sherlock scoffed at him. John didn’t realise he had spoken aloud, it couldn’t have been louder than a whisper of the wings of a butterfly. “Is it so impossible? Think about it. Come on, really _think_. The person I see every day, who I have grown accustomed to having by my side, who I couldn’t bear to be without, and when I had to, it tore me apart. You really can’t think of who that might be? Who I might be thinking about when I play an emotional piece on the violin at 3am? Who graces my dreams when I sleep, who I think about to help ground me, who gives me reason every day to not relapse? Whose exceptional talent to be oblivious to the most painfully obvious of things drives me up the wall? A laugh I would walk barefoot over glass shards to listen to, a smile which warms my heart, whose touch, however light it may be, causes my heart to stutter?” Sherlock stared at John and John stared at Sherlock. The silence was deafening after Sherlock’s passionate monologue. Finally, Sherlock’s posture relaxed. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and when he opened then, there was nothing in his eyes except defeat.

“Of course, it’s you I’m in love with, John. It’s always been you.” He whispered, before turning around and walking back to his room, not making a sound except for the quiet _click_ of his bedroom door closing.


End file.
